


things like this

by shatteredhourglass



Series: the misadventures of millennial bucky barnes [1]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: AU: Clint is not a superhero but he COULD be if he wanted, Alternate Universe, Amputee Bucky Barnes, Bucky Barnes & Steve Rogers Friendship, Clint is not an avenger, Deaf Clint Barton, Drunken Shenanigans, Everything Else Carries On As Usual, First Kiss, Getting Together, Hand Jobs, Hipster Bucky Barnes, M/M, Millennial Bucky Barnes, Modern Bucky Barnes, Nipple Piercings, Not Canon Compliant, POV Bucky Barnes, POV Third Person, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-08-14 11:29:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20191543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shatteredhourglass/pseuds/shatteredhourglass
Summary: 'Is it okay if I bring some friends,' Steve texts him, and Bucky replies with 'as long as it’s not stark :)' and tags on the address to the club after that. It’s not that he doesn’t like Tony Stark, except it absolutely is that he doesn’t like Tony Stark.In which Millennial Bucky Barnes gets a new arm, drinks a terribly neon cocktail, and can't quite stop drooling over the hot guy with the nipple piercing who keeps ending up in his bed.





	things like this

“Sorry I’m late,” Steve says in a rush.

“It’s not like it’s anything new,” Bucky says dryly, watches him sit down heavily on the seat opposite. He raises his left hand to the waitress, points to Steve and then makes a few hand gestures they’ve nailed down as ‘coffee, stat.’ Steve pushes his hair off of his face and sighs heavily, slumps down like he’s trying to hide himself. It’s a little ineffective, considering he’s two inches over six foot and built like a brick shithouse. “I saw it on the news, anyway.”

“It was a mess,” Steve answers, accepts the cup gratefully when the waitress drops it off.

“Looked like it. Hazard of the job, right?”

“You think they’d miss me if I just refroze myself?”

“Like you could back down from a fight,” Bucky says, listens to the warm sound of Steve laughing.

“You’re not wrong,” he replies. “If I backed down from a fight, though, we wouldn’t be friends.”

“Don’t be proud of that,” Bucky says, sighs. It’s still weird, being rescued by Captain America. He doesn’t even _like_ the Avengers. His phone pings insistently and he squints down at it. It’s from the disability support place he’d been recommended, and he grimaces, switches it off. When he looks up Steve’s looking at his left hand resting on the table, eyes lit up.

“You got it,” he notes, grinning. Then he turns serious, leans forward to speak in a lower tone. “Is it okay? Tony said he could make it look like a real arm, I saw the blueprints. Do you want me to-”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “No. Don’t harass Stark.”

“But,” Steve starts, and he’s starting to get that _look_ in his eyes. Bucky reaches over the table and slaps his left hand over Steve’s mouth, scowls when Steve tries to move out of the way. The metal fingers gleam in the soft lights overhead, and he watches the plate shift for a second, click into place.

“I told him to leave it like this,” he says, removes the hand once he’s sure Steve’s heard what he’s said. Steve spends another few seconds looking at the silver sheen of it, and the fingers twitch.

“If you’re sure,” Steve agrees, sits back in his chair. Bucky rests it on top of his thigh instead of the table when Steve waves the waitress over for a refill. He’s thinking about how anyone else would take better advantage of Captain America in his situation- not that he’s a good person, really, but more that he’s too proud to accept help from anyone, let alone a national icon and superhero.

“So, what’s new, besides the Hulk crushing a couple of farmhouses?”

“I think I need a holiday,” Steve says with a wry smile.

“I mean, you’re probably going to get called away, but if you want to go out to a club or something I can take you somewhere you won’t get recognized,” Bucky offers. He’s seen the look that gets in Steve’s eyes when Bucky talks about normal things; dancing, watching Dog Cops on the TV, bathroom hookups. Steve’s missed out on a lot of things for a centenarian, and it can’t be much fun for him. None of the Avengers have normal lives and that’s probably why he’s befriended a random millennial.

“Where?”

“I’ll come up with something,” Bucky says, downs the rest of his coffee. “Wear something hot, not… grandpa-y. If you wear the khakis I’ll strangle you myself.”

“I’ll do my best,” Steve answers with a smile.

_Is it okay if I bring some friends,_ Steve texts him, and Bucky replies with _as long as it’s not stark :) _and tags on the address to the club after that. It’s not that he doesn’t _like_ Tony Stark, except it absolutely is that he doesn’t like Tony Stark.

He gets in the club with a nod from the bouncer, who he recognizes from somewhere he can’t name, steps into the UV glow and heads straight for the back. The bass rumbles through his toes right up into his skull relentlessly and he taps his fingers to the beat, keeps walking past the dancefloor. His usual table is empty of other people, and as he sits the bartender drops off a glass of something neon and fruity.

Bucky’s expecting another Avenger, maybe Thor - do Asgardian deities like dancing? - but when he spots Steve weaving his way through the crowd in dark wash jeans and a t-shirt that by all standards should have ripped at the seams, there’s no sign of other superheroes. Steve raises his hand in a wave when he sees Bucky and then turns to say something to the woman a few steps behind him.

“Hey, Buck,” Steve greets. “This is Natalie, she works in Tony’s building.”

“Hi,” Bucky says, ignoring the nerves buzzing under his skin.

“Pleasure,” Natalie answers with a smile. She’s wearing pretty much the same outfit as Steve, although her hair is falling over her shoulder in scarlet curls and her makeup is perfect. She’s hot, which could mean… Bucky raises an eyebrow at Steve. Steve frowns at him in return, goes a little red in the face. Maybe not, then.

Still, she extends a hand to Steve. “Shall we dance?”

Steve looks back at Bucky uncertainly, painfully awkward, and Bucky stifles a smirk, waves him off. They’re here to have fun and give Steve a break, that’s what this is about. Dancing with pretty girls was pretty much the objective here anyway. Natalie takes his hand and starts guiding him to the dancefloor. Bucky takes a sip of his drink and grimaces. That’s _awful._

He watches them dance for a while. Steve’s laughing, seems to be genuinely having fun in this dimly-lit shithole in Brooklyn, and Bucky’s happy for him. He stays where he is, taps his fingers along with the thrum of the music and thinks about how he’s going to scrape together enough for the water bill.

He jumps when a beer bottle is slid in front of him.

Bucky looks up and there’s a guy standing there, his own beer in hand. He gives Bucky a little lopsided smile when their gazes meet, all blond hair and blue eyes. The guy looks sheepish, kind of shyin a way he really shouldn’t be, considering he might be taller than Steve and even with the baggy hoodie he’s wearing, there’s clearly a lot of muscle under there.

“Can I help you?” Bucky’s on his guard immediately, because as much as the guy’s attractive - Bucky’s thinking about _licking_ him in an offhand sort of way - he’s had his fair share of assholes in clubs thinking they’re entitled to something. Bucky doesn’t do that kind of shit anymore, and he thinks he might be glaring a little bit.

Hot Guy seems unbothered by his tone, thankfully.

“I’m with those two, technically,” he says, gesturing at where Natalie seems to be teaching Steve to dance to Beyonce, “but dancing isn’t my thing. You’re Steve’s hipster friend, right?”

“I guess,” Bucky agrees begrudgingly. He can’t really dispute it, with the flannel and beanie. If the guy is with Steve, he’s probably not a jerk. Bucky’s willing to give him the benefit of the doubt, just for Steve’s sake.

“Not a dancer?” Bucky shakes his head immediately and Hot Guy laughs. It’s quite possibly the best thing Bucky’s ever heard. “Same. Last time I tried, I gave myself a fucking concussion. I’m Clint. You mind if I sit?”

“Sure,” Bucky says, because why the hell not?

“Okay, okay,” Clint says. “So, Iron Man or Captain America?”

“Neither,” Bucky replies. “They’re both arrogant idiots with no sense of self-preservation.”

Clint laughs, barely audible over the noise of the club but oddly nice anyway. A server drops off a line of shot glasses with something pink inside, and Clint eyes them off with mild delight and grabs a glass. He raises his eyes to Bucky then, something dark and challenging in those blue depths. Bucky ignores the fizz up his spine and takes the unspoken dare, picks up one of the shots as well.

“You’re my favourite now,” Clint says, grins at him. “No respect at all for your best friend?”

“It’s _because_ he’s my friend I know he’s an idiot,” Bucky grumbles.

The shot burns all the way down, far more potent than he’s expecting and tasting faintly of petrol. It’s _terrible,_ reminds him why he drinks vodka and beer almost exclusively. Bucky coughs and then Clint laughs at him, but it’s not mean-sounding, and his knee bumps Bucky’s comfortably as he knocks back his own drink. Bucky watches his throat work, swallows hard.

Clint doesn’t seem to notice, rests his foot up on Bucky’s chair. “How does a civilian become friends with Captain America anyway?”

“You don’t want to know,” Bucky says. “Seriously, it’s a fucking mess, I thought he was going to get himself killed.”

“I saw footage of him jumping out a plane without a parachute once,” Clint supplies. “He actually does that? It‘s not a stunt?”

“No,” Bucky says resignedly. “He actually does that, and worse. When we met I yelled at him for an hour because he was being a reckless dumbass. He was so shocked he bought me a whole box of girl scout cookies.”

“_That’s_ how you became friends?”

“I shared the cookies and then dragged him back to my apartment to patch him up and yell at him some more,” Bucky answers. “After that he came back with another apology and an offer to buy lunch, and we just… kept seeing each other.”

“You _mother-henned_ Captain America into a romance?”

“Oh, ew,” Bucky says, scrunching up his nose. “Fuck no. He’s too… _Steve._”

His disgust must come across loud and clear because Clint snorts and slides another shot over to him. Him and __Steve__. Gross. Bucky genuinely can’t think of anything worse than dating Steve. He’s so earnest and overbearing even as a friend, it’d drive Bucky insane within minutes. Not that Bucky’s a stable prospect for a romantic partner anyway, but still.

Clint, in comparison, doesn’t even seem to worry about any of it. He hasn’t even questioned the arm, even though he must’ve spotted it. It’s… nice, Clint’s nice, and Bucky avoids social situations like they’re the plague but there’s something about Clint - aside from the obvious eye candy - that makes him feel at ease. He’s got a special disarming brand of charm, and when Clint gestures for more drinks and raises his eyebrow questioningly, Bucky thinks _why the hell not._

Bucky wakes up with a horrific headache. It feels like there’s a feral raccoon let loose inside his skull and he groans, rolls over and tries to bury his face in his pillow.

Instead, Bucky's face meets warm skin and hard muscle, and he freezes. He sends a prayer out to whatever’s out there that it’s just Steve in a silent fit of desperation, hopes that for once the gods have _some_ sort of mercy. He’s definitely in his own bed, at least, but when he opens one eye suspiciously he gets an eyeful of the chest he’s resting on and it’s definitely not Steve’s.

Bucky’s seen Steve shirtless before, and Steve doesn’t have a nipple piercing.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, _fuck._ There’s a hand on his lower back, just resting there and he has to look up, assess the situation and then perform damage control. Did he even say goodbye to Steve last night? It’s all blurring together a little in the early morning light and he stamps down the anxiety with all the determination he can muster, raises his head.

Clint’s hair looks golden like this, the lighter strands almost glowing under Bucky’s stare. Wherever the hoodie he was wearing last night went, he’s not wearing it anymore. He’s still blissfully unconscious, and he’s drooling a little on the pillow. It’s stupidly endearing even if it is a little gross, and oh god, did he _have sex with Clint? _

Bucky’s not sure if he’s _more_ disappointed about how easy he is for this guy or that he’s slept with this absurdly attractive man and doesn’t even _remember_ any of it. He’s not sure what to do here and he gets stuck staring at Clint, taking in the dark gold of his eyelashes and the tanned skin. His gaze slips down to Clint’s chest again inevitably and he’s-

That’s a lot of scars.

Clint shifts under him, then, nearly dislodging Bucky from his precious position balanced on one elbow, and his eyes flutter open and Bucky forgets about the scars. He blinks at Bucky lazily, still sleep-warm and dazed, and all Bucky can do is stare in equal measures of fear and interest.

His lips curl up into a smile and Bucky looks, chews at his own bottom lip nervously.

“Morning,” Clint says. “You got any coffee?”

“I…” Bucky starts, but Clint stops him with one finger.

“Give me two secs,” he says. He stretches out towards the bedside table, somehow managing to do it without knocking Bucky at all. Bucky looks and sees his prosthetic leaning up against the wall and then back to Clint’s fingers, which are closing around what look like pieces of purple plastic. Bucky realizes what they are a second later as he fits the hearing aids in his ears, fiddles for a second and then turns his attention back to Bucky.

“Uh,” Bucky says, very intelligently.

“Figured you wouldn’t care, given…” Clint gestures to the arm in the corner. “You kind of just flung it off when we got back here.”

“It hurts my shoulder sometimes,” Bucky says. Confesses, really, because he hasn’t told anyone that, not even Steve. Clint nods in understanding.

“You need an aspirin? You went pretty hard on the vodka last night, too,” Clint says, doesn’t dwell on Bucky’s arm. It’s a relief, and makes Bucky think that maybe there’s more to this unfairly hot man than he’d first thought.

“Nah,” Bucky answers. “’m good. You?”

“I wasn’t as tanked as you were,” Clint says with a snort. Bucky’s face feels hot. “No headache, just coffee withdrawal. Please tell me you have some.”

“Coffee,” Bucky says. “Sure, I can...”

He’s got questions, may as well be a good host while he’s at it. Clint doesn’t seem to feel at all awkward about whatever happened last night, although that doesn’t mean anything. He doesn’t seem like the type to embarrass easily. Bucky, on the other hand, is mortified.

“Fuck yes,” Clint says gratefully when he’s passed a mug.

Bucky watches with some level of shock as he downs the whole thing in one go like it _isn’t_ boiling hot. Then he goes back for another cup. Bucky just takes his own cup and sits down at the counter, watches this spectacle unfold. Clint downs another like it’s keeping him alive and then fills it up again, but sits down this time. He looks perfectly at home, hair sticking up at every angle possible and still shirtless.

Bucky’s grateful for the small mercies, namely that he was fully dressed already. They’re not the clothes he wore yesterday, though, which raises a lot of questions.

He’s got to ask. He needs to know. “Do you remember what happened last night?”

“Yeah,” Clint says, quirks an eyebrow at him. “You don’t? I probably should’ve cut you off after you started doing jelly shots, huh.”

Bucky grimaces and Clint laughs at that, bright and amused. “Yeah, that’s the face you made when I actually _did_ cut you off.”

“Did,” Bucky starts. “What happened with Steve?”

“I think he took Nat home,” Clint says with a shrug. “Danced the night away. Looked like he was having fun. You looked like you were having fun too- guess I can’t ask you about that now.”

“Did I,” Bucky says, not quite making it a question. It’s mostly because he doesn’t want to know the answer, not really, because there’s a million ways this could’ve gone and knowing him, it’s the worst way possible. Although… Clint’s still here, which means it wasn’t entirely a disaster. He wouldn’t have stayed if it was, surely. “Did- what happened?”

“We had fun?” Clint takes a swig of his coffee. “Like I said, you got really trashed. But it was nice. When you got tired I called for an Uber. I was worried you wouldn’t make it in the door and Steve had already left, so I came with you.”

“Did I- did we-” Bucky’s cheeks burn. He can’t actually say it, can’t make it any more real than it is right now. God, he’s a fucking embarrassment.

Clint has no such qualms. “Did we sleep together? Yeah.”

Bucky makes a wounded noise and lets his face smack down onto the counter. It _hurts._

“We didn’t fuck, though,” Clint continues, completely oblivious to Bucky’s mental anguish.

“Why the hell didn’t you say that _first?”_

“I didn’t realize it was such a terrible thing,” Clint says. Bucky squints at him with one eye, turns his face to the side. Clint’s giving him a look that’s all mock offense, but he’s half-grinning as well. “Am I that ugly? Like I get I’m not really pretty like you are, but I didn’t think it was _that_ bad.”

“It’s not,” Bucky starts, stops. Pretty? _Him?_ “I mean. You’re real hot, I just- _fuck._ I don’t even go out, I don’t _do_ things like this. If we didn’t have sex, why were you-?”

Clint sniggers into his coffee. “I lost my shirt because you spilled your drink on it and then you insisted I take it off. I wasn’t going to, but you kept frowning at me and I gave in. _Then_ I was going to leave, but…”

“But _what,”_ Bucky groans, because it can’t get much worse, can it? He’s already made a spectacle of himself.

“When I tried to tuck you into bed you grabbed ahold of my belt loop and wouldn’t let go,” Clint answers. “You latched on like a leech, it was impressive. I couldn’t detach you, so I sat down on the bed and then I got sleepy. Must’ve passed out.”

“Oh my god,” Bucky says, bangs his forehead against the wood and grimaces.

“I once woke up naked on top of the Wonder Wheel, covered in string cheese with a brand-new tramp stamp,” Clint says in a matter-of-fact voice. “Trust me, there’s been more embarrassing moments. Yours is barely a blip on the radar.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything, still trying to process the entirety of this mess. Clint does that little lopsided smile at him again and Bucky doesn’t know how that makes him feel, and then there’s a loud chiming noise. Clint pulls out his phone and a million expressions flit over his face in a few seconds as he reads whatever’s on the screen.

“I gotta go to work,” Clint says, a little regretfully. “But- and I know you don’t do ‘things like this,’” and here he gestures down at his own body and that _goddamn nipple piercing,_ “but I had fun last night, and if you actually want to sleep together or even have a burger, I put my number in your phone last night. No pressure.”

And then he’s out the door, leaving Bucky confused, hungover, and wondering what kind of a person walks down the street without a shirt on.

He spends a lot of time thinking about Clint’s offer.

Bucky’s a lone wolf, he can barely stand _Steve_ half the time, and his enjoyment has always been derived from sitting by a window with a good sci-fi novel and no one else in sight. He’s avoided relationships like the plague ever since his arm, and it’s been fine that way. He doesn’t have any complaints about the way he’s been doing things. Not to mention he made a fucking embarrassment of himself the first time.

But Clint had still offered, even after all that. _If you actually want to sleep together._ He’d called Bucky _pretty._

That thought runs through his brain every time he gets his fingers around his dick, gets him thinking about Clint’s easy smile and warm hand on his back. Thinks about getting his mouth on Clint’s chest, on that piercing. He starts considering it, even gets his phone out and finds the new contact labeled as _Friend’s Friend’s Friend :)._ That makes it better and worse, because he trusts Steve’s taste in friends but if he fucks Clint then Steve will definitely find out.

He never texts Clint.

Part of it stems from anxiety, but most of it is that he just doesn’t know what to _say._ It’s not like he _doesn’t_ want to get to know Clint. He doesn’t even know if he wants to angle for a one night stand or more. Bucky remembers being smoother than this at one point. Right now, though, it’s a faraway memory, and he wonders if Flirty Casanova James Barnes died with his left arm.

When Steve invites him to a party in the Tower Bucky says _yes,_ mostly because of the impressive puppy eyes Steve does but also because he’s _hoping_ somewhere in the depths of his mind.

He steps out of the elevator and immediately he’s assaulted by the sheer amount of people in the space. Bucky doesn’t actually recognize any of them apart from the Avengers, and most of those he only knows from press photos and news reports. He sees Tony Stark immediately in the middle of the room, talking loud enough that Bucky can hear his technobabble even from here, and decides he doesn’t want to go that way.

Steve is nowhere to be seen, which is an offense because he made _Bucky_ come here, the worst he could do is show up.

Bucky sighs and looks around for a bar, eyes landing on a waiter carrying about ten glasses of champagne. Right. It’s one of _those_ parties. He hates champagne. And rich people, but that’s besides the point. He considers just leaving again, doesn’t, because he’d feel guilty about it if Steve found out. Arriving and then leaving again within the first five minutes feels more pathetic than not showing up at all.

He spots a familiar mess of golden hair and takes a step closer automatically, stops dead.

Then he hears Stark calling out, “Barnes, hey!”

Nothing can possibly be worse than talking to Tony Stark in front of all these rich people, and Bucky stamps his embarrassment down where he can’t feel it anymore, weaves through the crowd and gets ahold of the sleeve of Clint’s purple henley.

Clint turns around and his eyebrows raise a little when he sees Bucky but he still smiles, that easy look that makes Bucky feel warm. It’s _terrible,_ Bucky doesn’t have time to moon over how aesthetically pleasing the man is right now.

“Please hide me,” Bucky says, figures he can’t get any less pathetic in Clint’s eyes.

Clint’s gaze flicks up from him to scan the room, goes silently tense in a way that makes Bucky worry he’s over-exaggerated. Clint must see Tony a second later, though, because he relaxes visibly and lets out a snort. “C’mon,” he says, tugs Bucky forward and starts walking towards god-knows-where. Anywhere’s better than here, so Bucky follows him, keeps his tight grip on Clint’s shirt.

They end up in what looks like a meeting room and Bucky lets out a sigh of relief, slides down the wall.

Then he realizes he’s _alone_ with Clint and that’s. That’s not good. He glances over and Clint’s rubbing at his face where there’s a particularly nasty bruise shading out in yellow and green, grimacing slightly. That’s when Bucky takes in the butterfly stitches along his forehead, the haphazard band-aid stuck to his jaw and the flecks of dried blood on his face.

“Christ, what happened to _you,”_ he says before he can stop himself.

Clint gives him a crooked grin. His lip looks split, too. “Pissed off the wrong people.”

“Right,” Bucky says, chews at his bottom lip. “You do that a lot?”

“Oh yeah,” Clint agrees, balls up a piece of paper in his hands. Bucky catches a split-second glimpse of the words ‘CONFIDENTIAL’ stamped on it in glaring red before Clint tosses it at the other side of the room. It bounces off a light and drops down onto a shelf before falling perfectly into the trashcan.

Bucky stares. “Was that- did you practice that?”

“Nah,” Clint answers, like it’s _normal_ to make that kind of shot. “I don’t miss.”

“How does someone just _not miss,_ that’s bullshit,” Bucky says, immediately forgetting about every reason he should be nervous. “Do it again.”

“What the _fuck,”_ Bucky says. “Fuck you, this is ridiculous.”

Clint flicks the piece of paper at him. It bounces off of the center of Bucky’s forehead directly and he scowls, throws it back. It barely grazes Clint’s shoulder as it hits the wall and then drops down to the floor harmlessly, and Bucky makes a frustrated noise that has Clint laughing at him again. It’s absurdly cute and Bucky’s still pissed off at the fact that Clint is some sort of god at throwing things, but it doesn’t really detract from how much he genuinely likes this weird, snarky man.

Bucky gets up to pick up the piece of paper, drops it down on the conference table. Clint’s still sitting, so he’s got the height advantage, and it feels less intimidating when Clint looks up at him with that amused little smile. There’s shadows under his eyes, dark and nearly purple in the lighting of the meeting room. He looks a little like he’s been pushed down ten flights of stairs, and Bucky feels a jolt of sympathy.

“I’m sorry I didn’t text,” he says abruptly.

Clint tips his head to the side. “There weren’t any expectations here, dude, it wasn’t a requirement. Even though I __am __an attention whore, I try not to be a jerk about it.”

“I was going to,” Bucky says. “I wanted to. I just- didn’t.”

“You don’t do things like this,” Clint replies with some amusement.

“I don’t,” Bucky agrees, but his eyes are drifting down to Clint’s lips of their own volition. He shouldn’t. Bucky’s unreliable, unstable and he throws his prosthetic at things when he gets tired and cranky. But then he remembers that Clint apparently starts fights and walks shirtless in the streets and got a drunk tramp stamp, and maybe he’s just as quirky and messed up in his own way.

Clint’s still watching him steadily, not pushing but not really moving away either, just waiting for Bucky to make up his mind, and that’s what does it. If he’s patient enough to withstand Bucky’s bullshit, he’s worth the risk.

Kissing Clint is _nice._

Bucky’s still leaning over him, resting most of his weight on the prosthetic hand and he’s immediately lost in the feeling of Clint’s mouth against his. Fingers brush his jaw gently, exploring his face carefully even as Clint lets Bucky control the pace of the kissing. Bucky hasn’t done this in months but he makes it easy, and when Bucky bites his lip Clint makes a fucking _delicious_ noise.

He’s not touching Clint anywhere but his mouth and that’s _really_ got to change, so he tries multitasking, keeps kissing him as he shifts his weight. Then he nearly unbalanced and knocks Clint off the chair, wobbles dangerously until Clint catches him.

“What if I just…” Clint starts, mostly muttering it against Bucky’s lips as he gets up.

Somehow Bucky ends up stuck between Clint and the table, the wooden edge pressing insistently against the back of his thighs. Clint’s close enough that Bucky can feel the heat that his body’s giving off, but the clincher is the hand on his thigh, thumb rubbing up against the inside of his gently and it _shouldn’t_ be that good, it really shouldn’t, but it is. Bucky gets his right hand on Clint’s chest and takes the opportunity to feel up all that muscle.

Bucky’s thumb catches against his piercing through thin cotton and Clint makes that _noise_ again, like it’s going straight to his dick. He’s _sensitive._

_“Mister Barnes,”_ a loud voice says above them and Bucky flinches so hard he nearly kicks Clint over. Clint looks just as startled, the hand not currently on Bucky’s leg caught in the air above his own waist like he was going to grab for something.

“What the fuck,” Bucky says, looking around for the voice. Then he remembers Stark’s computer friend. Clint’s still staring at the ceiling suspiciously.

_“Just to inform you, Captain Rogers is on his way to this room looking for you,” _the voice continues. _“I thought you might appreciate a moment to… collect yourselves.” _

Right. Yes. He definitely doesn’t want Steve to walk in on him making out with Clint. Steve will have _questions,_ questions that Bucky doesn’t have the answer to. He takes a step away from the table and glances at the closed door, decides to sneak in one last kiss. Clint reciprocates, but he’s looking a little puzzled when Bucky draws back.

“Steve,” Bucky says in lieu of an explanation.

Clint takes the hint, backs off a couple of steps and runs his hand through his hair. He still looks like he’s been doing exactly what he’s been doing, clothes rumpled with a faint flush on his cheeks, but it’s partially covered up by the bruises. Bucky straightens his own clothes quickly, takes a deep breath to steady himself before the door bangs open.

“Buck? You okay?”

“Sure,” Bucky says smoothly, smiling at Steve. It feels a little off-kilter but luckily Steve Rogers is known for his obliviousness. “Crowd got a bit much, so we were hanging out here.”

Steve nods agreement and then tips his head to the side, gaze going over Bucky’s shoulder. “Hi again, Clint.”

“Hey,” Clint says, voice a little rough.

He coughs, and Steve’s attention switches back to Bucky - and Bucky was right, god, how oblivious can one man be, it’s not like they’re subtle - with a smile, and holds the door open. “It’s safe now, just a couple of us and cards. Thor’s got this Asgardian mead, but I don’t know if it’s safe for civilians. Clint, you’re welcome to join if you want.”

“I- you know what, why not,” Clint agrees, and Bucky decides he may as well suffer through it as well.

“You’re cheating,” Tony accuses. “You have to be cheating.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Steve says, lays out his cards. “Four of a kind.”

“See? Total card shark,” Bucky says to Clint. “Think he learned it before he got to the future- did they have poker in the forties? Surely they did.”

Clint still looks uneasy - he’s looked nervous ever since they’d come into the main room. Maybe he’s got something against the Avengers, because most of his wariness seems to be divided between Tony and Thor respectively. Bucky understands the issue with Stark - he’s Stark, mostly - but he’s not sure what Thor and Banner have done. They’ve holed up in a corner of the couch with Steve taking up most of the room, with bottled water. The Asgardian mead was almost immediately vetoed.

“Royal flush,” Natalie says with a smirk.

Tony makes an outraged noise and throws his cards in the air. Bucky sees a two of spades, snorts. Dramatic son of a bitch. Clint’s expression softens a little when he looks at Natalie, something fond in his smile. Bucky glances back at the redhead, but she’s just ignoring Stark and pouring herself and a dark-haired woman some more wine.

“I don’t know anything about the forties,” Clint says. “I didn’t go to school.”

“The education system’s kind of shit nowadays anyway,” Bucky agrees. He’d hazard a guess at Clint being in his mid-thirties, but it’s not like school would have changed that much in five or so years. “What’d you do instead? Tutors at home?”

“I…” Clint starts, and then stops. “Not really.”

Bucky takes a real look at his face then and it’s conflicted, something dark in his eyes like he’s reliving a bad memory. Shit. Reminder to self: be careful talking about childhood. Clint’s still looking distant, so Bucky takes a risk, slides his flesh hand onto Clint’s knee and squeezes gently. Clint blinks at the gesture, looks down and then the shadows clear immediately.

“I think we’re done here,” Natalie says. “Thank you for the extra money, Tony. I’ll be sure to put it towards something useful.”

“Double or nothing,” Tony replies, giving her a challenging look. She rolls her eyes at him. With the kind of winning streak she and Steve have had between them, Bucky would be rolling his eyes too.

“I’m spending the night here, on Thor’s floor,” she says to Clint, who grimaces. “The taxi service at this time is horrendous. Do you want the couch?”

Clint’s expression goes even more pained at that. Bucky still doesn’t get it - he looks over at the beaming man telling Banner a story with extravagant hand gestures and then looks back at Clint, puzzled - but it doesn’t really matter if he does get it, Clint’s clearly uncomfortable. “He can stay with me and Steve. If you want.”

Clint gives him a relieved look. “Yeah. Yeah, that’d be- you mind, Nat?”

“Go ahead,” she says, gives Bucky an assessing once-over that makes him feel a little bit like a cockroach.

“That’s great, I’ll get some more blankets! I’ve only got one other bed, though,” Steve says sheepishly. “Buck, do you want to share?”

“No,” Bucky says, scowls. “You kick. A _lot._ And you’re a fucking superhuman.”

“I can sleep on the floor,” Clint offers. Bucky turns his head and raises an eyebrow at him. “Or not,” he adds.

“Alright, bedtime,” Steve says. “I’ll get Tony in bed first. You two can get set up- Buck, you know where everything is, right?”

“Sure,” Bucky answers. Natalie is still giving him a weirdly intense stare, like a magpie that’s seen something shiny. He remembers a second later that he’s basically ordered Clint to share a bed with him and feels his face heat up. _Shit._ Clint’s giving him a half-smile, half-smirk though and that’s enough that he doesn’t combust on the spot.

“This is starting to be a habit,” Clint comments.

“Mm,” Bucky answers, tries to think of a clever way to explain that he doesn’t actually _mind_ sharing a bed with Clint. What he comes out with is “you’re warm,” which isn’t particularly seductive, but Clint grins at him anyway. It’s the sort of effortlessly charming look that has Bucky sighing inwardly, because good god, how is this his life.

They’re lying on their sides in the bed and Bucky’s at a bit of a loss. He got this far, at least. Hopefully Steve won’t interrupt them this time. There’s a lamp casting dark gold shadows over Clint’s face as he shifts a little closer to Bucky on the mattress, catches ahold of Bucky’s waist before he kisses him. It’s as good a way to start as any and Bucky gets a grip on his shirt in one fist and holds on.

He figures out straight away that Clint likes biting, likes the edge of pain. The sharp inhale and the way he squirms for a second pretty much confirms it, even if Bucky couldn’t feel his erection up against his leg.

Bucky shifts his knee up a higher and Clint rolls his hips, makes a little gasping noise that Bucky _really_ likes. When Bucky gets a proper look his eyes are blown dark with arousal and _Jesus Christ._ Bucky nearly comes on the spot. It’s been a long time, and Clint’s face is pure sex.

“How far do you want this to go?” Clint’s voice is ragged.

“Far,” Bucky rasps. “What do _you_ want?”

Clint looks temporarily blindsided by that - like he’s not expecting this to be about him as well, and that’s not good - but he recovers quickly, answers as he gets his hands up Bucky’s shirt and splays his fingers out. “I was just thinking about rubbing off on you like a horny teenager, honestly.”

That’s- that’s _unfairly_ hot.

Clint’s still half-grinding on him as he talks, and Bucky manages to get his shirt off, flings his own somewhere off the side of the bed. Clint’s chest is as glorious as he remembers and he has to get his mouth on it, squirms down the bed to bite at his chest.

He makes up for moving by licking a stripe down his hand and getting it in Clint’s boxers, squeezes gently and revels in the moan Clint makes, choked-off and hot as hell. Bucky glances up at his face, takes in the way his eyes are fluttering and his lip is caught between his teeth. He decides to put his mouth to better use, does what he’s been wanting to do since that first morning and gets his mouth on Clint’s nipple, tongues at the piercing.

Clint makes an absolutely wrecked noise, it’s fucking _obscene_ and Bucky uses his teeth, starts stroking him off hard and fast.

Normally he’d be slowing it down, turning it into a tease, but he wants to see Clint fall apart more than anything else in the world right now and he can’t make himself slow. Bucky’s so hard it hurts and he’s ignoring it with all of his might, tugs at the piercing and feels Clint’s hips jerk hard.

“Fuck,” Clint chokes out. “Fuck, _Bucky,_ that’s good, holy shit.”

“Yeah?” Bucky twists his hand, feels a stab of vicious delight when Clint whines. He’s noisy and unashamed and Bucky kind of loves it, feels the wetness of precome on his fingers. Clint’s pushing up into his fingers almost frantically, hissing in a breath.

“Christ, _please, _put your mouth back, I want-”

“You should come,” Bucky says, gets his lips back on Clint’s chest, swipes his tongue over the skin-warmed metal. The minute he does that Clint shudders, a full-body thing that has Bucky speeding up his hand and then Clint’s crying out and coming hot over Bucky’s fingers and on the sheets.

“Fuck,” Clint says hoarsely when Bucky’s squeezed a few aftershocks out of him, hips jerking when Bucky’s slick fingers drag up his length again just to watch him shake. “What happened to being _shy?”_

“’m not shy,” Bucky answers, shoves his own pants down his thighs and gets his hand around his dick. It’s still wet from Clint’s orgasm and he’s so _hard_ it’s difficult to even hold a conversation. “Just- just out of practice, fuck, _Clint.”_

Clint’s fingers land on his cock over his own hand, squeeze gently and he groans, bites into his lip so he doesn’t get any louder. It’s hard when Clint looks like _that,_ all boneless and post-orgasm warmth, wet mouth and pupils blown dark. Bucky’s breath is coming fast and he feels like he’s going to come even faster, like Clint coming has shoved him towards the edge even without being touched before now.

“So fucking pretty like this,” Clint says. “_Look_ at you, fucking hell.”

Bucky’s breath hitches in something that’s nearly a sob.

“Look so good, baby,” Clint continues, voice rough like he’s been chewing glass, “gorgeous, Bucky, fucking beautiful when you’re losing it.”

His body feels like it’s caught alight, fire rushing through his veins hot and insistent as he sinks his teeth into his lip so hard he draws blood as he comes silently, Clint still murmuring little words of praise into his hair.

When he comes back to himself Clint’s swiping at his stomach with a wet cloth, careful on his skin. Bucky blinks at him a few times, feels dazed and off-balance. Clint gives him one of those half-pleased smirks, goes back to wipe his soft cock. Bucky twitches at the sparks of _too much_ that surges up his spine and Clint just finishes his job, tosses the cloth in the direction of the bathroom.

It lands on the handle perfectly and stays there, and Bucky groans and lets his head fall back into the pillows.

“Y’okay there?”

“Fuckin’ hell,” Bucky says breathlessly, and Clint laughs. He’s cute, but Bucky also wants to smack him a little bit. Somehow his hair’s managed to get even worse in the time Bucky’s taken to notice it again, flat in some places and sticking straight up in others. He looks… _well-fucked,_ for lack of a better term, and Bucky’s embarrassed at the bone-deep satisfaction that thought causes. “Please stop being hot.”

“I mean,” Clint starts, scratches at his hair and looks down at his toes like he’s self-conscious. “I wasn’t… trying? To be hot.”

“I don’t want to see you try,” Bucky says. “Please don’t try.”

“I’ll do my best,” Clint agrees.

He’s still half-hovering like he’s not sure if he’ll be welcomed back in the bed and Bucky peels back the sheets, flicks his underwear off the mattress. Clint’s gotten rid of his underwear too at some point, but Bucky’s trying to keep his eyes on Clint’s face. It’s not difficult, mostly because the play of expressions on his face is fascinating. When Bucky taps the space next to him Clint gets into action, slides onto the mattress.

“Hey,” Clint says.

“Hi,” Bucky returns.

Clint goes to say something else, but it’s broken up by a yawn, and Bucky thinks about the shadows in his eyes and the bruising still on his face. It’s not fair to keep him up any later, even if he wants to stay awake, and Bucky yanks the covers up the bed.

“We’ve got time to talk in the morning, right? No work or imminent panic attacks?”

“Sure,” Clint says, half-smiling. “No work yet, I’m all yours.”

“Good,” Bucky decides, because if he’s going to go ahead with this he’s got to figure out what _this_ is. Not tonight, though, it can wait. “Go to sleep, you look exhausted.”

“But I was-” Clint has to stop to yawn again, looks at him a little sheepishly. “Fine, you win, going to sleep. You mind?”

Bucky glances at Clint’s fingers, which are pointing at his ears. Right, hearing aids. “Sure,” he says, gestures with his right hand. “You mind if I-”

“Sure,” Clint agrees. “I can lipread if you need anything.”

It’s oddly comforting, having someone who’s disabled as well, because there’s a level of understanding there that Bucky can’t have with someone who’s never lost anything. Clint doesn’t give him sideways looks when he detaches the left arm - doesn’t react much at all, really, just drops his hearing aids on the bedside table.

He settles down into the sheets and Bucky drops the arm on the carpet with a thunk, turns to look at him. He looks… _softer, _somehow, sprawled out on Bucky’s sheets like he belongs there. Maybe the word Bucky is looking for is __peaceful__, he doesn’t know, he just knows that when he lies down and Clint shifts closer to tangle their legs together, it’s _nice._

In the morning Bucky promises to call and text Clint when they leave the Tower, and Clint promises to suck him off in the shower.

It’s a fair trade, all in all.

**Author's Note:**

> winterhawk bingo square: bedsharing
> 
> the sequel will be out as soon as i edit it


End file.
